If This Were a Book: Moonlight

Title: Blue Is a Boy’s Name

Tagline: What do you become when the world only lets you survive?

Excerpt: If Moonlight were a novel, it would be a literary ghost—sparse in language, rich in ache. The cover would be velvet black with a splash of ocean-blue ink bleeding across the spine. Chapters would be broken like mirrors, each one a reflection of selfhood, masculinity, and silence. A novel that demands to be held gently—and read aloud only in the quiet.

“Some boys are raised by fists. Others by oceans. He was born of both.”

I couldn’t help but wonder… if Moonlight were a book, would it be written in chapters—or phases?

Because some stories aren’t meant to unfold in a straight line. They bloom like tides. Quietly, beautifully, and with the kind of ache you only notice once the water’s receded.

If Moonlight were a book, it would be bound in velvet. The kind of novel you don’t read with your eyes—but with your ribs. Every page would feel like breath held too long, and released only when it’s safe to be seen.

The first section would be childhood—shy, searching, and sacred. Words sparse like the language of boys who learn early how not to cry. The font would be soft. The silences between paragraphs? Louder than any dialogue.

Then comes adolescence—sharp and blurred. A chapter soaked in moonlit confusion. Here, the margins are messy with questions you can’t yet ask: Can softness survive in a world that only rewards armor?

By the time we reach the final act—Black in that golden light—we realize: this isn’t just a love story. It’s a survival story. It’s the tenderness we fight to keep tucked beneath our skin when the world keeps handing us barbed wire.

If Moonlight were a book, it would be passed from hand to hand like a secret. Dog-eared by boys who never found themselves in fiction before. Annotated by girls who understand that love, when done right, feels like forgiveness.

It wouldn’t end with a kiss. It would end with a question: What parts of yourself do you have to bury in order to be loved? And what happens if someone digs them up—and stays?

Because Moonlight isn’t just a movie. It’s a mirror. A lullaby. A letter to the boy you once were…and the man you’re still becoming.